Finch held up his hands, having heard enough. An overwhelming weight bore down on him; he could hear the dominoes falling, one against another, the solid click echoing in his ears. “It’s done. It doesn’t matter whether or not I want to know. It’s too late to stop it now.”
“So what do we do?”
“We wait for Agnete.”
* * *
She called midafternoon while they were sitting in the hotel lobby, Stephen gorging on the complimentary crackers, cheese, and sherry. Finch noted the landscape of scattered crumbs surrounding his napkin; the man ate mindlessly when nervous. He had set his cell phone on a small table between them, and when it rang they both fixed on it, watching it vibrate across the dark wood surface before Stephen grabbed it and thrust it toward Finch, trying to swallow a mouthful of cheese.
Her voice was not what he’d imagined, but how could he imagine it at all? He might have expected her to sound like Alice, but did Alice have a sound? An intelligent shyness that was halting and melodic? The voice of a songbird, bright and crisp against the morning air? Or Agnete might have claimed Thomas’s suspicion and wariness, speaking briskly, with a cool detachment. All were assumptions likely fed by his own guilt. Instead, Agnete’s tone was warm and confident. She would swing by the hotel and pick them up; they could see more of her completed work, as well as some of the pieces that were in progress, at her studio adjacent to the house, which was not far from the square.
“It’s not a hard walk if you’re inclined, but you’ve probably been walking around town all morning, and if you haven’t been here long you can get turned around. I wouldn’t want to lose you en route. You could end up at someone else’s home, in someone else’s studio, looking at their work instead.” She laughed.
Finch’s laugh was more forced and uncomfortable. Shame gnawed at him, at his extremities, his gut. She was charming. He had the scruples of a flatworm. By the time he hung up, Stephen was a dog in heat, pacing around the sofa, hands in his pockets, then out, then in again.
“Well?” he asked.
“She’ll pick us up in half an hour. We’re going to her house, to her studio, to look at her work. I hope you were serious earlier about buying something.”
“Could I borrow some money?”
Finch scowled at him, determined to share some of his dark mood. “No, but I wouldn’t let that stop you.” They both went to their rooms to freshen up and met in the lobby with five minutes to spare. Stephen had his briefcase, and Finch grudgingly clutched a black leather portfolio into which he’d inserted pertinent pieces of information, as well as the same photos he’d shared with Phinneaus two days earlier. Now that he’d accepted his role, he wanted the whole thing to be over with as quickly as possible.
He checked his watch every fifteen seconds, hoping she’d changed her mind. She’d described herself in the briefest terms: curly dark hair, blue eyes, work boots—practical, she said, for tromping back and forth between the house and the studio. Several young women passed through the lobby who might have been Agnete, but not a one glanced in his direction, and he was again reminded that being old rendered him invisible, whether he wished to be so or not.
Then she was there. He recognized her immediately, and was loosed from his moorings by the shock of a female version of a Thomas he had never known: younger, happier, radiant with health. Agnete had the best of Thomas, his characteristics visible only in the way they strengthened what would have been Alice’s soft features. Her eyes were the same startling pale blue as her mother’s; the fair skin could have come from either of them. Her hair was as inky as it had been in the photograph he had of her as a child, black curls spilling electrically over her shoulders; her walk spritely, as if there were too much of her to be contained in one tall, slender person. Out of the corner of his eye, Finch saw heads swivel as people watched her cross the room.
She headed directly toward them with her hand outstretched, and he felt himself pulled into her orbit. He wondered if she might have the power to heal; if Thomas, upon seeing the happy, whole person he had helped to create, someone living and breathing, not of oil but of flesh, might be imbued with some of her liveliness, her strength. He turned to Stephen to find him staring at his feet, his face flushed, his hands hidden behind his back. Finch poked him sharply in the ribs and put his hand out, asking, even though there was no need, “Agnete?”
“You must be Professor Finch. I’m delighted to meet you. And you are Mr. Jameson?”
Stephen nodded and tried to say something but was overtaken by a coughing fit. Agnete promptly thwacked him hard on the back. “Better?” she asked.
“I’m fine, thank you. And I’m just Stephen. Finch and Mr. Cranston are the only ones who call me Jameson.”
“Mr. Cranston?”
Finch jabbed him again. “It’s very thoughtful of you to pick us up. I’m sure we could have managed on our own.”
“Not nearly so thoughtful as you may think. I’ll have you captive, won’t I?”
She offered him a small, secret smile, and he was caught off guard—her attractiveness reminded him of Natalie, but she seemed completely guileless and genuinely warm. Before he could ask anything else, she waved them toward the door and they clambered into an old Volvo wagon wearing a film of dust, Finch in the front seat and Stephen in the back. He wanted to keep as much distance between them as he could, not trusting Stephen to contain himself. The inside of the car was spotless, as if she’d been expecting she might need to offer a ride to two strangers. She was a fast but competent driver, taking the corners without touching the brakes, and Finch thought she might have been equally at home in the city, maneuvering in and out of traffic, zipping into rare parking spots, ignoring insults hurled her way by less fearless drivers.
“Here we are,” she said, after a quick ten minutes. They pulled up in front of a low wall softened by clumps of grasses and low-branching trees on either end, and sprays of arching, red-berried shrubs that bordered a wide opening just off center, where a stone path cut through. There was a scripted metal address mounted on one side of the wall that read “Eleven Calle Santa Isabel.” The wall, similar to others they’d seen in town, was decorated for the holiday, with neat paper bags lining the top and swags of cedar garland draped along its length.
“I have a few smaller pieces in the front courtyard you can look at to get an idea. The larger pieces are in the back.”
They followed her down the walk, past the wall, and into the courtyard. Finch was transported. He looked to his left and heard the fountain before he saw it, partially obscured by pots of cactus and holly and the bare stems of things already done for the year. Stephen gasped and when Finch turned his head, he saw why. The other side of the courtyard was full of movement; shaped pieces of stainless steel throwing light in every direction. There was a piece that looked like a school of fish, and as he approached it, he saw their movement was actually a reflection of himself, bloated and shrunken, swimming across the shiny metal surface of each individual piece. Beneath a bower of leafless trees was a sculpture of birds, a tornadic flock whose mass of silver wings darkened then gleamed as the sun moved in and out from behind clouds. Everywhere he looked there was some bit of magic to catch his eye, something beautifully fluid and deceptively simple.
“They’re incredible,” Stephen said, staring at a comma of metal that appeared to be solid and heavy but was balanced on a thin rod. He turned to Agnete, who was standing with her arms crossed, watching both of them. “Where in the world did you learn to do this? Where did you study?”
Finch wondered the same thing, though he wouldn’t have asked. Not yet. Her talent was obvious. She had her father’s imagination, his gift for seeing not only what was there but the space taken up by what was not, and melding them into what could be. Her work had a fresh, playful quality that excited him. The fact he’d never heard of her, never even seen any of her pieces, reminded him how isolated he’d become, so many of his years focused on only one subject—Bayber�
�to the exclusion of anything else. He was saddened to think of the talent he’d missed. All the up-and-coming artists he hadn’t seen.
She shrugged. “Nowhere, really. I suppose I’m a product of my environment. Practically everyone here is an artist. You know what they say. Something about the air.”
“I’m very impressed,” Finch said. “I mean that. It’s not something I say often.”
“I believe you.” She smiled. “You’re a collector, then?”
Ah, here was where the difficulty started. “There are certain artists I’m very interested in,” he said, stumbling over the words, trying to feel his way into an explanation and looking up at the cloud-streaked sky as though divine intervention might save him. “Mostly paintings, though. Do you paint, Ms. Kessler?”
“Please, call me Agnete. Or Aggie, if you like. I used to paint, but I wasn’t very good at it. I always wanted to know what was going on behind the canvas. Don’t you wonder that, when you see a painting that intrigues you? What else must be happening that you don’t know about?” She laughed. “I guess two dimensions aren’t enough for me.”
Stephen piped up. “I feel that way, too. What else is going on? What don’t we know?”
“Exactly,” she said, looking pleased to be understood. “Why don’t you come in and I’ll pour us all some sherry before we go out back.”
A chill lingered at the base of Finch’s spine as they walked to the front door, a flat, persimmony orange that seemed in keeping with Agnete’s style, understated but unique. She ushered them into the house and took their coats, hanging them on a rack by the door.
“We’re here,” she called out.
Finch stopped. He hadn’t anticipated having to do this in front of anyone else; a spouse, a boyfriend. “We’re interrupting, and it’s getting close to dinner. Please, let me call for a taxi and we can talk more another time.” He had the urge to flee, but Stephen was standing in front of the door, blocking his way, shaking his head.
“Not at all,” Agnete said. “I told you once I had you here, you were a captive audience. And you wouldn’t want to leave now, not before you’ve seen everything.”
She disappeared around a corner, and when Finch hesitated, Stephen gave him a shove. He walked down a short hall and turned the corner, then froze as Stephen, close on his heels, bumped into him and nearly knocked him off the top step of the two leading down into the living room.
The two women were sitting on the hearth of a fireplace in the corner of the living room. Stephen grabbed his upper arm and squeezed it so hard Finch felt his fingers go numb. Hanging above the fireplace was a painting, the right triptych panel, a young Natalie cradling a child in one arm, with the other arm reaching out to her side beyond the edge of the frame.
Stephen let out a puff of air, a small “oh,” before sinking down with an ungainly thud on the step where he was standing. The woman sitting next to Agnete cocked her head and stared at Finch evenly, her hair spilling around her face, a cloud of faded gold dashed with silver; her eyes the same ice blue they’d been in her youth, but more intent and fierce than he’d imagined. He realized it was not Thomas who had given Agnete her look of determination, but her mother.
“You must be Dennis Finch,” Alice Kessler said. “I understand you’ve been looking for me.”
SIXTEEN
Agnete had whispered in her ear, “I’ll ask them to stay for dinner, shall I?” The rush of her daughter’s breath was like a flutter of wing displacing air, a sensation she wished she could capture in a jar. “Yes,” she’d said without thinking. “That would be nice.” So she was in Agnete’s kitchen, clumsily steering a wooden spoon through a pot of thick chili, while Mr. Jameson was outdoors, no doubt assailing her daughter with questions she would not know the answers to, and Professor Finch sat at the kitchen table nursing the dregs of a glass of wine, observing her from beneath his brows as though she might be a fata morgana.
She had not expected to feel so trapped, or so relieved. Her body was at odds with itself: her back and shoulders rigid with tension, her muscles as languorous as sap. Let them be the ones to tell her daughter. In the two precious days she’d had with Agnete, Alice had searched for where to begin, had struggled to pull the right words from the air. Thomas Bayber is your father. She’d gotten that much out and quickly, too, feeling something unlock in her as she said it, giving him the gift of finally being known. Agnete hadn’t pushed, but Alice knew explanations were going to be required. How could she say what she needed to? It seemed easier to let someone assign her a role—be it perpetrator or victim—and she would play it. She let the spoon drift in the pot and swirled the reddish liquid in her mug, an herbal tea Agnete had procured from someone local, claiming it had healing properties. It tasted like summer: marigolds and something else peppery and ripe.
She watched through the bay window as her daughter pulled Stephen Jameson around the backyard, showing him the rest of her work, their dark heads bobbing almost in unison in the dimming light. It was fine as long as she kept her in sight, but every time Agnete disappeared around the corner of the house or went into another room, Alice was seized with a panic that she’d been dreaming and would wake up in her bed in Tennessee, alone and unknowing.
“She’s very talented, your daughter,” Finch said, tilting his glass toward the window. Agnete’s hands danced through the air, pointing first to the sky and then to a piece of sculpture. Stephen appeared to be completely absorbed by them, setting their intricate parts in motion with the touch of a finger or a purposeful breath. Finch was relieved to have him out of the house for a while so he could talk to Alice alone.
“And she must have magical powers. Unless he’s sleeping or eating, I haven’t been able to keep him quiet. Agnete’s worked a spell on him.” He drummed his fingers against the tabletop in a rapid staccato until he noticed Alice watching.
“A bad habit,” he said. “Something I do when I’m ill at ease.”
“I’m making you uncomfortable?”
“You? Not at all. It’s everything that comes next.” He shrugged his shoulders and shook his head, his glasses sliding farther down his nose. “I don’t know how to do this. I was so certain we’d never find you that I didn’t give enough thought to what would happen if we did.”
“If it puts you at ease, we’re in the same boat.” She brought the wine from the shelf and refilled his glass, then sat down across from him, using both hands to pour tea into her mug.
Considering her image over these past months, he’d presumed an intimacy between them, as if she’d returned his every inspection, wondering about him from the confines of her gilded frame, making assumptions of his life. He understood now he knew nothing of the living, breathing Alice sitting across from him, a woman who had never so much as imagined his existence. Phinneaus might have given him some clue about her illness, however cryptic, but he’d chosen not to say anything, his sole concern to protect her. Finch admitted to a grudging respect for the man, knowing he would have done the same for Claire.
“I’d like to join you,” she said, nodding toward his hands, “in the tapping. I still get a great deal of pleasure seeing the mechanics of the body work as they were meant to. It isn’t quite the same as phantom limb syndrome, but I can almost feel your movements, or a distant memory of them, in my own fingers. It’s like being visited by a friendly ghost.”
“You talk as though you’ve had to contend with this for a while.”
“Since I was fourteen.”
He blanched. At fourteen, Lydia had been playing piano sonatas and racing up and down the block with her friends, her feet flying beneath her in a blur of speed. He tried to imagine a lost adolescence, a lifetime of physical pain. “You’ve been living with this for most of your life?”
She nodded and gave him a wry smile. “My most constant companion.”
“Then you were sick when you were pregnant.” He heard Phinneaus’s words. Whatever you might think of her, you’d be mistaken. “I’m sorry.
That’s none of my business.”
Alice laughed, and his face reddened when he realized she was laughing at him, though not unkindly. “I imagine I’ve been your business for several months now, Professor. It’s not unusual for women with RA to feel better while they’re pregnant. Before that, and then again after, I was on the standard regimen: cortisone, gold injections, antimalarials, d-penicillamine, methotrexate. Some things worked for a while. Most didn’t.”
She set her cup down on the table, rubbing her hands. “There’s an alphabet of reputed cures for my disease, only a few of which I’ve not checked off my list: C for crow’s meat—mixing it with spirits is supposed to be an ancient Chinese cure. E for earthworms. You store them in a container in a dark place for a few weeks, then rub the rancid oil on the affected joints. And W for standing inside the thorax of a whale carcass. I looked, but I couldn’t find one. I will confess to going barefoot in Christmas snow—that counted as my X—and to green-lipped mussels, gin—which I very much enjoyed, by the way—bee venom, nettles. All of those in times of desperation, because they’d worked for somebody, at some point, so I thought, why not?”
“But you stayed in school. Your degree from Wesleyan, your graduate studies . . .”
“At a religious university, on a scholarship. Which was revoked once they found out I was pregnant. And unmarried. Not exactly in keeping with their moral code. It wasn’t as devastating as I thought. The life I’d planned for had started to seem increasingly unlikely.” She held up her hands. “Ornithology. It’s hard to imagine holding a live bird with these, isn’t it? Tagging specimens? Doing dissections? Even my ability to take photographs or notes in the field would have been dependent on whether I was having a good or bad day.”
The Gravity of Birds: A Novel Page 32
